


We Can't Kill, It's Christmas

by Mei (Mei_Hitokiri)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mei_Hitokiri/pseuds/Mei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An incredibly belated Christmas story, in which Sebastian may or may not have found a moral code.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Can't Kill, It's Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last December, but I've only just gotten around to typing it up... Whoops.
> 
> As ever, constructive feedback is much appreciated.
> 
> ~Mei

**We Can’t Kill, It’s Christmas**

 

Jim threw a folder at me. This wasn’t an uncommon thing to happen, though it was when it was nearly eleven at night on Christmas Eve. Having realised that the festivities utterly sickened me, Jim had taken to wearing the most obnoxiously garish jumpers he could get his hands on. Today, he was sporting a scarlet woollen thing with a pom-pom snowman on the front. If you squeezed the right one it sang an awful arrangement of ‘Frosty the Snowman’ in a falsely jovial, tinny voice. I sear if he played it once more I’d throw my port at him.

“What is it?” I couldn’t be bothered to open the folder.

“A job. Last minute thing. Taken out before midnight tomorrow.” Jim grinned happily. No doubt he’d charged an extortionate amount for such late notice on a job. I pushed the folder away from me and picked up the TV remote.

“Not interested.” Probably not true. The target would, no doubt, be holed up somewhere with lots of people and therefore pose an interesting logistical challenge in terms of detection and an exit strategy. But that wasn’t the point.

 

Jim had frozen on his way to the kitchen, staring at me like I had grown a third head or something .

“I beg your pardon.” He was being polite. That usually foreshadowed some sort of horrific explosion of temper.

“You’re excused.” And I, of course, just had to provoke him. Jim stalked slowly towards me. It was reminiscent of a cat going for a bird; only this bird happened to be a goshawk and the cat more of a kitten.

“What do you mean, you’re not interested?” I shrugged.

“I don’t want the job. It doesn’t pique my curiosity. Doesn’t tickle my fancy. I’m not interested.” By now, Jim was directly in front of me. Even though I was sat on the floor, he didn’t really tower above me. If I’d have so wished, I could quite easily have slapped him.

“I’ve given you a job, Moran. You are my employee. You will complete it.” I tsked and downed the remnants of my drink. If Jim was going to get angry, it would undoubtedly be in the line of fire. Whilst he had no particular attachment to the glass, it was good port and it would be a chance to waste.

“It goes against my moral code.” A complete load of bullshit, but by now I was having fun. I’d always enjoyed things that put me in the line of fire. Baiting death was just another sport for me. “I find it morally reprehensible to kill someone on Christmas Day.” For a long moment, I thought Jim was going to kick me in the face. Of all the ways he could attack me, that was certainly one of the most dangerous. I have no desire to get cartilage fragments lodged in my brain; after all ive survived, it seems like a sorry way to.

 

He didn’t. Instead, he flopped down onto the floor next to me. It was such a sudden change in dynamic that it reminded me of a time I’d told a captive he had a ten second head start, but not that I’d severed his Achilles tendons.

“You’re appalling.” It was a compliment if the twitching corners of Jim’s mouth were anything to go by. I pulled him closer and he curled himself onto my lap.

“You don’t complain.” He shrugged, and then kicked away the glass next to me so that he could push me flat. I was glad I’d taken the precaution of draining the port. Grabbing a cushion for my head, I let Jim wrap himself around me and find the remotes for the fire and the TV.

“You better have gotten me a good present.” I grinned. I’d managed to ‘persuade’ some of my old unit to get me access to the new MoD research plant. There were the blueprints for seven new chemical, biological and mechanical weapons for Jim’s perusal wrapped under the tree, plus a new suit, watch and remote video cameras to replace the ones he’d lost at 221B in the explosion.

“Merry Christmas, Jim.” I smiled.

“Merry Christmas, ‘Bastian.”


End file.
